


Away

by alternatealto



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Sick!Wilson, death!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1543898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatealto/pseuds/alternatealto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only one year, and so much to gain, or lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my LiveJournal in 2009.

**Away**  
  
  
1.  
  
It’s spring, and the irony is cruel.  
  
They’re walking – well, Wilson’s walking, House is limping – in the park across from the hospital.  No destination in mind, except one, and neither of them can talk about that.  There are flowers under the trees, daffodils, narcissus, bluets, spring beauties.  Bright green buds, tiny leaves on the trees, everything just at the beginning point.  
  
They walk through it all.  
  
“When – ” Wilson begins.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
It’s easier, so Wilson does.  They walk on, that special, matched pace they’ve perfected over so many years.  The wind across the small lake is a spring breeze, half-chilled by winter.  House looks over at the man next to him and has the sudden absurd desire to button Wilson’s coat all the way to his chin, make him drag the gloves out of his pocket and put them on.  
  
It’s pointless.    
  
This is spring, and there’s still hope.  
  
  
2.  
  
The heat is flattening, enervating.  The still air lies over you like wet wool, smothering and scratchy and damp.  The hospital air conditioners strain; victims of heat exhaustion fill the clinic and the ER.  
  
House is on Wilson’s balcony, staring over the tops of the trees, toward the park.  On the other side of the glass, Wilson is watching House.  He should be working; his desk is only half-cleared.   
  
Half empty.    
  
House stares steadfastly across the dark green trees, the manicured lawns.  The shrill of a cicada rises suddenly, loud, over the ambient sounds of traffic and the distant wail of an ambulance.  
  
Wilson pulls the door open, walks out, stands next to House. The heat makes him reel for a second; House puts an arm out to steady him, not needing to look.  If he does, he’ll see how the weight loss actually looks good on Wilson, at the moment, and then he’ll want to throw up himself.

He really ought to get Wilson back inside, out of all this heat.

  
“When I – ”   
  
“Don’t.”    
  
Wilson draws a breath, shifts, but then exhales and subsides.    
  
It’s summer, and they’re half-way through the year.  There’s still time.  
  
  
3.  
  
The stifling heat is a memory.  Everything is crisp and clear and cool, colors vivid and brilliant, a last mad burst of exuberance before it all falls apart. Overhead, geese call back and forth, wings laboring southward, leaving the chill behind.  A tiny hint of wood smoke drifts from somewhere as he unlocks the front door.  Maybe he’ll build a fire in their fireplace tonight; Wilson could probably use the extra warmth.  
  
Wilson’s sitting on the sofa, wrapped up, pale except for the flush along his cheekbones.  House takes off his coat, drops the grocery bag in the kitchen and comes to sit next to him for a moment, settling close.  He leans in, and Wilson’s head is on his shoulder.  Nothing needs to be said.  They simply savor the quiet moment, getting all they can from it before letting it go and taking the next from their diminishing store.  
  
“When I’m gone,” Wilson says, softly.  
  
House stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.    
  
“House . . . you’re going to need . . .”  
  
“Look, I’ve joined the damned support group, okay?”  
  
Wilson lifts his head to look at him, his incredulous, relieved smile making House’s stomach twist and his eyes threaten to spill over.  “You did?  When?  You didn’t tell me.”  
  
“Last week.  They meet in the mornings.”  
  
“I know,” Wilson agrees.  House closes his eyes.  They sit for a little longer, then House grabs his cane and hoists himself up.  
  
“I’m gonna get dinner started.  It’s a good night for chicken soup.”  
  
“A good night,” Wilson nods.    
  
  
4.  
  
Cold.   
  
Vacancy.    
  
Everything white and stark and empty, buried in the chill of the uncaring snow.   
  
He stands at his office window, and watches it come down, covering all the memories of spring and summer and fall, hushing the traffic, silencing the voices.  The low sun glints off the ice on the lake in the park, visible now through empty trees.  
  
The letter came today.  He wonders, dully, which of them Wilson got to mail it; how long ago he thought all this out.  
  
He’s read it, and read it.  His eyes don’t need to see it any more, it reads itself in his mind, now.  Especially that last part.  
  
 _We never said it.  We just . . . did it.  But I’m going to say it now.  I love you, House, and no matter when you read this, it’s not going to be in the past tense.  I’m loving you as I write this, and I know, I know, it won’t stop.  I hope I was strong enough, smart enough to actually say it to you before I had to go, but if I was stupid, or if there wasn’t time . . . try to hear my voice now._  
  
 _And don’t come looking for me, okay?  If I can, I’ll wait.  And I’ll wait, loving you._  
  
It’s winter, and spring might never come.  Not the spring he wants.  
  
The one that will come will be alien, only half-there.  But he feels, suddenly, as if somehow the other half will have just been . . . put away for him.  Kept, somewhere, until he can find it again.  
  
Waiting.  
 

 

 


End file.
